Glue
by paperstorm
Summary: Dean's lying pressed against Sam's side, propped up on one elbow, just looking. Keeping watch. A sequel to 'Shadows of a Shattered Life'. Wincest, but not graphic at all.


**This takes place right after Shadows of a Shattered Life. Probably won't make a lot of sense if you haven't read that. **

* * *

Sam's beautiful when he's sleeping. Well, he's always beautiful, but especially when he's asleep. All the lines of worry smooth, that little scrunchy spot between his eyebrows is totally relaxed. His lips are parted slightly, just enough to allows puffs of soft, even breathing. Calm, quiet. He looks like a little boy again, rid of all the stress marks time has worn on him that him look older than he is. He's twenty-seven, for Christ's sake, he's a kid. Or, he should be. Instead he's had to endure more than most people do in a lifetime. Hell, more than most people would in ten lifetimes. And it shows on him, sometimes. But not right now. Now, he's at peace. Splayed out on his back, legs fallen open a little, one arm is bent at the elbow, hand resting on his own stomach, and the other is trapped under Dean's body. Dean's lying pressed against Sam's side, propped up on one elbow, just looking. Keeping watch.

Dean loves seeing Sam so peaceful. He loves seeing Sam _sleeping_. It scared the hell out of him when a soulless Sam admitted he didn't sleep, at all. But if he's honest with himself, right now he's the one that can't sleep. The last few months he's been so focused on getting Sammy back that he had successfully buried all the pain and the devastation he still felt from losing his brother in the first place. He'd been a mess those first few months. A devastated, angry, emotional, totally inconsolable mess. And for some reason it's all coming back now. Relief at getting his baby brother back seems to have knocked Dean's walls down a little.

Dean reaches over with his free hand and traces the hand on Sam's chest. The pad of his index finger moves slowly up and down Sam's slender fingers, across the back of his big palm, and then down over his wrist. This is the hand that a pissed off spirit broke a few years back, and Dean knows the exact spot, around the joint of the thumb, where there's still a bump from where the bone didn't heal properly. You can't tell unless you press down in exactly the right place, and Dean's definitely the only person in the world who knows that other than Sam. Then Dean moves his hand up to Sam's collarbone, running the tips of his fingers along the length of it from shoulder to shoulder. He stops to dip his thumb into that little indent at the base of Sam's throat. If he pauses for a few seconds, he can feel the gentle thud of Sam's pulse. Dean flattens his palm against Sam's sleep-warmed skin and smoothes it down Sam's sternum, rubbing in small circles. He pets his fingers through the small dash of baby-soft hairs between Sam's pecs. Then he traces the outline of the rippling muscles on Sam's stomach, one at a time.

Sam sighs sleepily and tosses his head towards Dean on the pillow, and Dean stills for a moment. He doesn't want Sam to wake up. He didn't get to see or touch this body for a year and a half, and he really wants the chance to relearn it without Sam there smirking at him. S_hit_, a year and a half, he can't even believe it sometimes. Feels like an eternity, but at the same time it feels like no time at all. Sam's bigger, more built and more defined, but Dean still knows this body. He knows every inch, every dip and every contour, knows them with his hands and his mouth and his heart. He knows the scar over the third rib on the left side came from a werewolf. Sam was fifteen, and it was the first time Sam had ever seen one. It got a good swipe at Sam's abdomen, but Sam was quicker, popping the fucker right in the forehead. Dean had never been so proud, and even as he was stitching Sam up later, Sam never complained. And the notch of scar tissue on the front of Sam's shoulder, that's from when Bela shot him. Bitch. And there's a tiny, almost unnoticeable scar right beside Sam's right eye, from where a piece of glass from a shattered mirror got him. Dean remembers that hunt. Sam admitted he thought Jessica's death was his fault. That one hurts even now, even after all this time, to think about Sammy burdened with so much guilt and grief.

Sam's chest rises and falls slowly, fluidly. He's alive, he's here, right here with Dean where he belongs. Dean's more happy than he can say but he still can't believe it sometimes. Feels too good to be true, that Sam's soul is back in and the wall worked, so well that Sam doesn't remember anything that happened after he died. It's way better than Dean could've hoped for. Sure, Sam feels bad about the things he did, but he doesn't actually remember doing them so it's not as bad as it could've been. And Dean's gonna do whatever it takes to make Sam believe it wasn't his fault.

Convinced that Sam's still out cold, Dean moves his hand up to his brother's face. He lightly drags his fingers along Sam's strong jaw, down his straight nose, then over his nearly perfect eyebrows. Dean hesitates for a second, but then he ghosts a fingertip across each of Sam's eyelids, loving the way they twitch a little under his touch. He does wish a little bit that he could see Sam's eyes, because they're incredible from this close. The ring around the edge is deeply blue, then they fade into more of a jade green, and then finally to gold, right around the pupils. They're breathtaking. Then Dean smoothes the backs of his knuckles over Sam's hair, thick and silky and perfect. It feels incredible between Dean's fingers, always has. His whole life, his hands have been drawn there like magnets, always feeling safe and grounded when he's touching Sam. He gives Sam a hard time about that stupid, floppy hair all the time, but the truth is Dean would hate it if Sam cut it. Some of his favorite memories are of him and Sam in the impala, driving to nowhere, with his arm resting over the back of the bench seat, fingers tangled in Sam's hair. Dean can make Sam fall asleep just by petting his hair sometimes. Or, he could, before. He makes a quick mental note to see if he still can, but he's pretty sure things like that won't have changed. There's eighteen months and thousands of miles between them right now, but Sam's still his little brother. After everything that's happened, the one thing Dean still knows for sure is how to take care of his little brother.

He slides his hand lower again, making sure to brush over a dusky nipple and smiling when he hears the little hitch in Sam's breath. He lets his fingers play over the bumps of Sam's chest, smoothing lower until he reaches that cut of muscles on Sam's hips. Dean saved that spot for last, because he didn't get a chance to check it out earlier. It's – wow. He was right, it's definitely more defined than it was the last time he had a chance to really look. There's a straight ridge of hard muscle that Dean's fingertips fit perfectly into, like a little handle carved specifically for him. He runs his fingers over it a few times, loving how Sam's warm skin tightens a little and turns into goosebumps. Then, for a few seconds, Dean lets his hand hover over the soft bulge in Sam's boxer briefs. They're fitted, like Sam likes them, so Dean can see a perfect outline of the soft cock he knows is inside. He's hesitant, not sure if he can let his little sleep perving session turn into all out molestation. But there's so much heat coming off Sam's crotch, as if he was already turned on, and Dean can't resist. He lowers his hand and palms Sam's flesh, gently, the touch barely there. He's not gonna _do_ anything, jerking Sam off in his sleep is a line Dean's not willing to cross, but he likes just touching. Feeling Sam, soft and warm and trusting. It's a tingly thrill, almost like being a bit drunk but so much better. Sam's been trained, just like Dean was, to sleep with one eye open, and if it was anyone else touching Sam, even if they just touched his arm or shoulder, Sam would be awake and packin' so fast it would make your head spin. But, somehow, Sam's unconscious body knows Dean's touch, is able to distinguish it from everyone else's, so he doesn't wake.

"Having fun?"

Dean jumps like he's been burned and his head snaps around the other way. Sam's eyes are open and he's smiling sleepily up at Dean.

"_Shit_," Dean breathes. "Have you been awake this whole time?"

Sam cocks an eyebrow. "Whole time?" he repeats, smirking a little. "Exactly how long has it been?"

"Not – not _that_ long," Dean stutters. "God, I – sorry, I was just …"

"You got nothin', dude," Sam says, but his smile is soft and affectionate now.

Dean lets out a shaky breath. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be sorry, s'okay." Sam reaches up and brushes the backs of his knuckles against Dean's cheek. "I don't mind."

"It's been a long time," Dean mumbles sheepishly, an intense blush still heating up his face. "I was, I don't know, reacquainting myself."

Sam nods. "You didn't have to wait until I was asleep. I would've let you. Touching's free, remember?"

"Just for me, though, right?" Dean asks, blushing a little more at how small and weak he sounds right now.

"'Course. Only ever for you." Sam cups Dean's cheek and brushes his thumb along Dean's cheekbone. "You okay? Did something happen?"

"No, nothing happened, I … sorry, this is stupid," Dean mutters, trying to pull away but Sam grabs his arm to stop him.

"No, c'mon. Don't run away."

"Sammy …"

"Talk to me," Sam whispers. "Please."

"I … I don't know." Dean shrugs pitifully. "It's just all coming back right now. I don't know why."

"What is?"

Dean heaves a sigh, and tucks his arm under his body as he lies back down, forehead pressed against Sam's temple so he doesn't have to look at Sam as he says this.

"Everything I felt when you first … you know. How messed up I was when you were gone. It's …" Dean pauses for a second, trying to organize his thoughts so this comes out at least half-coherently. "When you came back to me, I knew right away that something was off about you. So I had to bury all that crap I was feeling because I needed to concentrate on figuring out how to help you. But now, that's over, I don't … I don't have to be strong anymore. At least, not about that. So it's all, sort of …"

"Rushing back?" Sam finishes gently.

"Yeah."

"You wanna tell me about it?" His arm that's trapped under Dean's neck bends up, and Sam presses his warm palm between Dean's shoulder blades, then he shifts a little so he can curl his fingers around the arm Dean's got thrown over his little brother's chest.

Dean sighs and pushes his nose through Sam's hair. "Not much to tell. I was just really messed up. At the beginning, anyway. It got better, Lisa helped. But it was never gone, not really."

Sam nods, but doesn't say anything. His thumb just strokes Dean's arm lightly while he waits for Dean to continue.

"I didn't even let her touch me for the first, probably, three months? Maybe four?" Dean admits, remembering vividly the sickening feeling he'd gotten in the pit of his stomach at the thought of being with anyone but Sam. "And then the first time she tried anything, I … she got into the shower with me this one morning. Tried to jerk me off. But I freaked."

"Why?" Sam asks quietly.

"Her … her hands …" Dean closes his eyes and strains to remember exactly what it was. "They were – small, way too small. I felt really bad about it later, I mean she was just trying to help, trying to make me better. But I … all I wanted was you. It should have been your hand on me, and hers, I mean, it barely even fit all the way around me. It was just so … wrong."

As much as Dean gives Sam grief about his Jolly Green sized body, he _missed_ it when Sam was gone. He feels ridiculously tiny when Sam's giant hands are on him, and Dean never realized how much he loved that until it wasn't there anymore. He really missed being the smaller one.

"I'm here now," Sam whispers.

"Yeah. I know."

"And I love you."

Dean's whole chest tightens with a swell of emotion. Just like everything else he's missed about Sam, it's also been a year and a half since he's heard Sam say that.

"I know that too."

"So what can I do?" Sam asks softly.

"Nothing. Just this." Dean takes a deep breath and tries not to sound even more pathetic than he already does. He feels stupid and weak but it's kind of nice for a change, to be the one shattered to pieces and let Sam be the glue that holds him together. "Stay here with me? Just for a little while?"

"'Course I will," Sam murmurs, rolling a little onto his side so he can wrap both arms around Dean. "Not going anywhere."


End file.
